Not Our Last
by Flashback 1701
Summary: Feliciano is going to begin negotiations with the Allied Powers in the morning, but tonight, he just wants to be with Ludwig. GerIta. Oneshot.


Hetaverse. Oneshot. GerIta.

Italy began negotiations with the Allied Powers in the summer of 1943 shortly after the dismissal of Mussolini. Pietro Badoglio was the driving force behind the armistice.  
>This idea was originally concieved whilst listening to Hatsune Miku's "Last Night, Good Night".<p>

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><p>Feliciano stood trembling outside the door, tears standing stubbornly in his eyes as he battled himself. His orders had been clear, and he could still hear the screams of his children all too easily. However, he felt a small nagging at the corner of his heart, reminding him that Ludwig had been a good ally: loyal and strong. Leaving the poisonous little claws to wrench his heart in two, the Italian made up his mind. This would be it.<p>

He didn't like what was happening at his house, he didn't like what was happening at his friend's house, he didn't like what was happening around the world. All over, the mourning of survivors rang in his ears even as he felt countless lives being snuffed out like so many tiny candles. No, he wanted no more part in this war, this endless cycle of hatred and death. He'd had enough.

With Badoglio's words etched into his mind, he pushed open the door and entered the bedroom.

His ally was already sleeping, though his appearance seemed to imply that he'd simply settled back for a moment before passing out in complete exhaustion. He was still wearing his uniform, of half of it rather, seeing as his jacket had been draped over the back of the chair in the corner. His feet were clad only in a pair of pathetic-looking socks, all dingy grey and one with a hole large enough to set the German's big toe on full display. Thick, well-muscled arms crossed over an equally powerful chest that heaved rhythmically with his deep breathing, the scars and gauze-wrapped wounds not going unnoticed by the brunet.

To Feliciano's amusement, the book his partner had (apparently) been reading was resting over his face, forming a sort of a makeshift tent. As he removed it, the Italian was struck once more by how young Ludwig was. His brow, relaxed in sleep, was lined prematurely with the constant stress and anxiety of war, and his eyes were shadowed by too many nights of too little sleep. A slender finger swept a stray lock of pale blond from the German's sweat-shined brow, the owner silently noting the twitching beneath the other's closed lids. He was dreaming and, judging from his steadily darkening expression, it was of nothing pleasant. Feliciano frowned but made no move to awake him, knowing that Ludwig would only act angry as he forced back his shame at displaying that sort of weakness. Perhaps he was dreaming of the camps again; they had been haunting his rare moments of sleep for the past four years, making it no small wonder as to why he so often pushed himself to continue his work until the night could almost be considered tomorrow morning. Even now, he smelled faintly of smoke and burning flesh. And blood, but they had all taken on that stench. It was just one more reason to despise war.

Slipping the opened shirt from his own thin shoulders, Feliciano fell back onto the bed to his usual spot: nestled comfortably against the blond's side as though that was where he belonged. However, even as much as he wanted to surrender to the serene oblivion of slumber, he blinked back his weariness in favor of staring up at the other's peacefully sleeping face. Ludwig's pale profile stood out against the backdrop of the deep indigo night sky beyond the window, stirring up disquiet in the other's chest. He barely noticed as tears crept from the corners of his eyes, trickling uninhibited down his narrow chin. The Italian rested his head gently on his ally's chest, burying his face in the familiar fabric of the ragged undershirt. It was still flavored with the German's sweat and musk, tickling Feliciano's nose with the comforting scents. He didn't want this to end, but all the same, he knew it must.

By morning, he would have crept away, trading his friendships here for the security of the Allied Powers. But until then, he had resolved to staying beside the powerful blond – even if it was for one last night.

Half of him wished that Ludwig had been awake, that he might've admitted to him how sorry, how torn he was in negotiating himself off of the battlefield where he knew the other would be waiting. There were so many things he could have told him, but none of them seemed good enough. So, instead, he would rest beside Ludwig, his Ludwig, and simply breathe with him. Feliciano grasped the other's pale hand in his own, pretending that the German was awake and murmuring, "I know, I know, I understand. I only wish you wouldn't go."

Closing his eyes, the brunet knew that dawn was rapidly approaching. He pressed a final, lingering kiss to the other nation's chapped lips, now ignoring the tears of sorrow and relief that spilled down his cheeks. They were separating now, but all wars ended eventually. Sometime in the future, they would meet again and Feliciano would beg for forgiveness he wasn't sure he deserved. Until then, he nuzzled into Ludwig's thick neck and murmured against the tender flesh, "I promise tonight won't be our last."


End file.
